


You will hear thunder

by oleksisforeign



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Angst, Forbidden Love, M/M, War, closeted homosexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:59:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleksisforeign/pseuds/oleksisforeign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Harry was eighteen, he became a soldier. Almost a year later he is sent back home for loving a man, a sin punishable by death. He is instead forced to be a guard of the royal family, and in particular, for Prince Louis.</p><p>**on hiatus</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> the era in which this takes place is other worldly. It's less medieval times, more 1700s-1800s.

Darkness. Surely this was worse than darkness. Harry can see it, can feel it, can breathe it into his lungs; so this must be it, must be that point beyond closed eyes and numb, shaking hands.

So much shaking, so much fucking shaking. Harry’s fingers gather around the thin mesh, imprinted almost into his skin, sticky with blood and wet with rain.

“Fuck, fuck,” he chokes, grabbing at clothes and skin and hair and a chest that won’t rise and fall and lips that won’t move.

There’s a high-pitched whining sound that dims into a whir, and then there’s an explosion. Harry ducks against the cold body beneath him, chest heaving, body lighting to what feels like a thousand degrees as debris and body parts shower over him like rainfall.

There is shouting, so much fucking shouting. Someone is grabbing at his shoulders, at his hair, pushing him, pulling him, trying to get him to just move, but he can’t move, can’t fucking move when this man is laying here most obviously dead before him.

“Don’t leave me,” Harry cries, even though he already has, “don’t fucking leave me like this you piece of shit.”

There’s no taunting laughter, no lips pulled over teeth, no shy kisses or gentle touches brushed along his cheekbones. There are only empty eyes, open and gazing up at the shattered moon, broken in pieces by the war.

“Get the fuck out of there Styles!” He hears his commander shout from somewhere in the distance.

But Harry doesn’t want to. Harry wants to lay here next to this lifeless body and become lifeless with him.

“Charlie,” he croaks, over and over, because maybe if he says it enough he’ll answer back.

Then someone is pulling him up by the straps of his pack and someone is screaming so loud it’s deafening, so much it hurts, and it burns through his chest until it settles in his bones, shaking him like he’s made of paper.

“He’s dead! We’ve got to keep moving Styles, let’s go!”

Harry doesn’t have the energy, can’t coax the numb from his limbs long enough to settle on his own two feet and run. So his commander drags him, yelling about how he’s useless, how he should leave him behind too, and some part of Harry just wishes that he would. But he doesn’t.

All Harry can see is sky, dark sky full of moon and full of stars and full of open wounds large enough to crawl into. Whatever is left of the trees burn, and all Harry can think is, what a shame, because he’s too weak to process anything else.

They must be back at base camp, must be mostly safe, because then he’s being thrown down a ditch filled with sand bags and men breathing too loudly. Harry’s head hits the ground hard and he can’t even blink through the pain, just blindly stays there against the dirt.

“Get your head out of the fucking gutter,” his commander spits at him before grabbing at a group of men and issuing a round of orders.

Harry just looks back up at the sky, sees the black and the blue and the deep, deep hole. Darkness. Surely this was worse than darkness.

 

~

 

Harry’s breath is visible through the bright morning air, cold and harsh and heavy. He can’t remember the last time he stood here, even though it must have only been less than a year ago. His feet ache against the cobblestones, reminding him that he was no longer out there in the dirt and grime smeared with blood and sweat. He was no longer fighting in a battle that had plagued him since birth.

He wonders if things could have been different. He could have stayed with his mum and sister, working as a blacksmith to put bread on the table, and maybe if they saved enough, meat. He could have continued working, could have ignored the sickness that grew in his gut every day he had to stare into his mum’s blank eyes.

But then Gemma got really sick, so sick she couldn’t move. And blacksmiths were nothing, were hardly worth a dime, and so there was no money to make her better. She died stiff and cold, hardened against the frame of the bed, and there was no way for him to hold her hand without feeling like he could have done something, could have been better for her.

When he became a soldier it was because they would take care of his mum for him. When he became a soldier he was eighteen and fresh for the taking. When he became a soldier, he met Charlie.

Fuck if Charlie wasn’t the most beautiful man Harry had ever seen. Charlie made indents in Harry’s bones without even touching him, sent him into fits of heat and cold just by overheard words. His hair was a golden color Harry let himself remember. It was so golden it was like looking at the sun for too long.

Harry can recall the first time Charlie ever spoke to him. The moment was engraved in the backs of his eyelids, replaying like a dream any time he tried to sleep. It was mid August, two months after his recruitment, and there was dirt smeared under his eyes to keep from getting burned.

“Cold tea?”

Harry wanted to laugh because there was honestly nothing worse than cold tea. “You’d drink that?”

Charlie’s smile was small but it felt so big. “No, but it’s hot out and the water down here tastes like shit.”

Harry laughed so hard he needed a hand to cover his mouth. Charlie’s smile only grew.

“Can I sit down maybe?”

“’Course,” Harry mumbled, trying to wipe away the red from his cheeks.

“You know, you’ve got rather curly hair.” Charlie kicks up his feet on a bulky bag and sips from his cup.

“Hadn’t noticed really." 

Charlie’s laugh sounds like rivers. “Doesn’t it get in the way? You know, when you’re fighting?”

“Sure,” he nodded.

And they’d sort of left it at that. Charlie started coming over more often, started talking with Harry more, started requesting missions with him. Harry felt like an idiot, because he knew his face was too red and his laugh too loud but Charlie just smiled at him with a curious tint in his eyes, and it was more beautiful than bothersome.

Harry knew all too well about the consequences that came from a man loving another man. Harry knew he was wrong, that who he loved was wrong, that what he felt inside was wrong. But Harry listened to his heart more often than he listened to his head because in the long run it felt better to.

He knew he’d never meet someone, never marry who he wanted, and never start a family. He would never live the life he fully wanted to because everyone knew what happened to those men, the men who listened to their hearts instead of their heads.

So when Charlie had somehow managed to coax Harry out of his cot in the middle of the night out into the woods away from base camp, Harry should have known.

“You’re going to get us fucking killed,” he whispers hoarsely as Charlie walks blindly through the trees, snapping twigs and trying to laugh about it.

“So what? Isn’t that why people become soldiers?”

It was a curious thought, Harry had to admit, but he didn’t talk about it because he didn’t think he really wanted to die, not yet.

“Where are we even going?” He whined as softly as he could.

“I don’t know, we can stop here if you’d like.” Charlie turns around and stops Harry in his tracks, hands gripping his biceps so hard they left bruises.

“Is everything okay?” Harry remembers asking.

“No,” Charlie had breathed. And then he had whispered, “you’re very young Harry. You’re very young to be at war.”

Harry scoffed. “So how old are you then?”

Charlie smirked and his fingers leave Harry’s arm to brush some stray curls from his eyes. Harry can’t breathe.

“Would you be angry if I kissed you?” Charlie whispers almost inaudibly. He says it like he’d kiss Harry anyway.

Harry wants to scream that yes, yes I should be very angry if you kiss me because I’m a boy and you’re a boy and we’re boys and boys most perfectly do not kiss each other. But instead what comes out is, “I don’t think so,” and then I don’t think so turns into water against the ships of his lips.

Harry remembers what living felt like, and living felt like Charlie.

The cold brings Harry back to present day. He’s wearing his old attire, and even though he was most likely facing a punishment equal to death, Harry couldn’t help but feel relaxed because his clothes smelled like home. His pants may be a little too tight, but the tunic fits like he remembers, and it’s enough to still the cold in his chest.

His wrists and ankles are shackled, blistered already from metal greased with nervous sweat. But soon the guards are grabbing him and pushing him forward. Harry’s feet pull him forward even though he feels heavy. Above all he feels heavy.

They take him through town and Harry endures the stares, had endured them before and would do so again. It isn’t hard, not when he’d spent his whole life preparing for this moment, because he knew it would come sooner or later. Harry wasn’t daft, just done caring.

By the time they’re at the front of the castle, Harry’s feet are throbbing and his ankles are bleeding. He winces with each step now, and tries not to cry out when one of the guards shoves him forcefully inside the giant wooden doors his fore fathers most likely broke their backs building.

The tile beneath Harry’s feet is too colorful for this situation, he thinks. The blues and whites mix well into the sea of portraits lining the span of the hallway, showing him faces he’d never seen before except in books.

Harry sighs because he wishes he could go back, could go back and be a child again, playing dirty in the streets with trousers ripped all the way up to his knees. He wishes he could be in bed with his mum and Gem, reading books about kings and queens from long before their times, could read about adventures and best of all, fighting.

Pretend fighting was Harry’s favorite. He built his own wooden sword, took it out to play in the alleyway and laughed when all the other boys got jealous. He used to play the knight in shining armor who saved the beautiful damsel in distress.

Harry smirks slightly because even back then he really could have cared less about saving a girl and taking her back home to marry. In fact he vividly remembered wanting to do just that with Timothy Black, the boy that ended up stealing his sword and breaking it in half.

When they enter the throne room, he’s taken aback by the space. The room was practically the size of fifteen houses and yet it was filled with only two rather large, jewel clad throne chairs. In one chair sat the King and in the other, the Queen. Beside her stood a boy who appeared to be only a couple of years older than Harry, with caramel hair and eyes as blue as the sea. Prince Louis.

Harry is forced to look away from the boy when he is pushed down onto the hard ground, knees colliding roughly with sharp stone. He wobbles slightly, but manages to gain balance as rough arms pull him upright.

“And who are you?” The King booms.

Harry breathes.

“He asked you a question,” the guard behind him digs into his arm. “Answer your majesty the King.”

Harry clenches his jaw. “Harry Styles.”

“And is there a reason you are here in my council today?”

“Been with a man, sire,” the guard on his right says. “A man he was in the war with.”

The king’s face turns into a sneer and Harry is reminded of every face he’s ever looked at. “Is this true?” He spits.

“Yes,” Harry replies, hard and monotone, because if he was going to die he was going to die strong.

“You are aware that the punishment for your actions is certain death.”

Harry closes his eyes, remembers golden hair and peppercorn irises.

“Wait.”

The voice hits Harry’s ears, bright, and he lets his eyes open for it. The King turns stubbornly towards his son, eyebrows furrowed and mouth turned so far down it disappeared into his beard.

“What is it?”

The Prince looks at Harry, eyes squinted and back straight like the swords that Harry used to forge. He thinks maybe death is too simple, and Harry Styles shouldn’t deserve simple.

Harry keeps his eyes trained on the tan face of the Prince, eager for death now, ready to conclude something that would never have started anyway.

“Let him be a guard,” the Prince says.

“Are you barking mad?” The King raves, but the Queen tuts him into silence.

“He will be King soon one day my love, let him make decisions that he is perfectly capable of making.” 

The King looks about ready to murder. He turns his gaze back to Harry, and he desperately finds himself wishing looks could kill.

“Clean him up, find him a bunk, and then send him back here within the hour.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, just stares back into cold, ice blue eyes that remind him of the winter Gemma died. They look away before he can.

Then he’s being pulled to his feet and his ankles and wrists sting against the chaffing cuffs so much he sees white. The guards lead him down a side hallway that appears halfway down the throne room, and then it’s eerily dark and quiet and Harry finds that his heart is beating too fast to feel.


	2. Chapter two

“You’ve got to breathe love,” Charlie puffs against Harry’s ear, fingertips ghosting over skin raised with bruises and shaking with heat.

Harry tries to nod, licking his lips and willing his body to just _shut up_ already, but his skin feels like ice everywhere Charlie isn’t touching and wherever he is touching emanates pain.

“Just, give me a second?” The words barely come out of his mouth but he knows Charlie has understood when he presses soft, gentle kisses along the line of his neck.

“We can wait,” he murmurs. “We don’t have to do this now. Maybe wait till we get back home, can do it properly with a bed and everything.”

Harry can’t help but smile, his shoulders shaking quietly with a laugh, before bringing his fingers up to scratch at the nape of Charlie’s neck.

“What if there’s no home to go to when we get back?”

“We’ll make a home.” Charlie props himself on his forearms, his gaze holding strong and firm against Harry’s. “I know we’ve never really talked about it, about when we get to leave. But I’m not scared, not really, and if it’s all right with you I’d like to think maybe, we could make a home with each other. When we get back, and all.”

Harry chokes, fingers fisting into Charlie’s hair, and tries to breathe because he can’t think straight with his body burning and Charlie looking at him like that.

“I love you,” he blurts out, and bites his lip immediately afterwards as if he could have held the words back.

But a smile just blooms on the other boys’ lips and then he’s kissing Harry with such fervor that it makes colors burst behind his eyelids.

“God I love you,” Charlie says back against his lips, hands brushing back the curls matted to his forehead. “You’ve no idea.”

“They won’t let us,” Harry sighs against him.

“I don’t care.”

 

 ~

 

A loud banging on the wooden door behind him startles Harry back into reality. The water has chilled somewhat and his fingers are wrinkled against the knobs of his knees, where they’d been perched for god knows how long. He brings them up to his face and wipes away the wet there, coughing into his fist and willing himself to fucking _straighten up_ because Charlie’s not here and he’s not coming back and no matter how much he wants to feel that breath against his skin again, he won’t.

“Are you about finished?” The voice is harsh and cold and Harry wishes that closing his eyes would mean leaving this place.

“Almost,” he shouts back instead, and manages to pull his shivering body from the tub, shaking his newly washed hair before grabbing the robe by the mirror and drying off.

“Hurry up, the King is waiting.”

“Mustn’t keep the King waiting,” he mouths mockingly at his reflection in the mirror, instantly regretting it because then he gets a glimpse of his face, absolutely wrecked beyond repair, purple and blue bags outlining the underside of his eyes and tipped red with exhaustion.

His shoulders hunch, eyes ready to leave when he notices it, the pink bruise against the cream of his collarbone. It’s almost faded, seems about ready to be any minute, but there it is, right now, staring him in the face like he’s a fucking _idiot_ for thinking he could ever forget that face, those hands, those _lips_.

Harry falls forward towards the mirror, mouth fallen open, lips pulled back in a trembling heap as his fingers swipe across the mark, still tender from when Charlie had marked him with it only a few days prior. So many things climb up his throat, things like _I miss you I love you please come back why’d you ever leave_?

But instead a short and raspy, “fuck you,” falls from his lips instead, and then he presses hard, hard enough so that he feels pain, and smiles almost longingly at it because some part of him still imagines it’s Charlie doing it, Charlie marking him, Charlie with him.

More banging startles his fingers away and a loud, “now!” barks at him from the other side.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” he mumbles back, and quickly pulls on the clothes he came here in, ignoring the fancy attire they sent him in with.

When he finally manages to open the door, large ugly hands twist into his tunic and pull him roughly back the way they had come. He barely has time to enjoy the scenery before he re-enters the thrown room, shivering against the water droplets still clinging to his hair and the feel of deep, oceanic eyes boring into him from ahead.  

“Set him down,” he hears the King say gruffly, obviously still upset over the choice of his son.

They shove him once again to the hard, cold tile and his knees ache a little bit at the memory of it. He raises his eyes this time though, hard and steady, and lets them ghost over the three individuals that are in exactly the same place as when he’d left.

“Why aren’t you wearing the clothes I left out for you?”

Harry’s heart beats once, twice, at the words, and his eyes jerk up to meet with blue. “I’m sorry?”

“The attire left out for you for after your bath, you’re not wearing it.”

Harry doesn’t understand why coherent words don’t form quickly enough in his brain. He’s usually quick, witty, almost clever, but somehow those taunting eyes and wispy caramel hair keep his head fuzzy enough so that what comes out of his mouth makes him cringe.

“I like my clothes.”

“You like your clothes.” The Prince’s tone is mocking, but Harry can see the twitching smirk at the ends of his lips. “You do realize that you can’t wear them when you’re a guard, don’t you?”

“And why not?”

Fingers dig into his shoulder and he bites his lip to hold back the painful noise that had almost reached his tongue. “You do not talk to the Prince like that,” the raspy voice behind him hisses.

“It’s alright,” Prince Louis says, waving his hand slightly as if that would dismiss the pain, but his eyes are still locked with Harry’s green and it’s almost suffocating, really. “But you don’t get to talk to me like that, you know.”

“My apologies.” He’s not sorry, not really.

The Prince cocks his head to the side slightly and then leans forward to whisper something to his mother, the Queen. She runs her fingers through his hair once before nodding with a slight smile and then standing to whisper something to her husband.

“Are you out of your mind?” He barks. “I will not leave him alone with this _traitor_.” He looks at Harry as he spits out the last word, and he tries his hardest to hold back a smile because traitor is the least accurate word to describe him, really.

“There are guards darling, and Louis is twenty-one, he is _perfectly_ capable of defending himself. What do you think all of those sword fighting lessons have been for, nothing?”

Harry cracks a smile at that, ducking his head to look at the ground so that he doesn’t break out fully in laughter. What do they think is going to happen? Harry isn’t violent, despite his history in the war, and it’s not like he’s going to lunge at the Prince or even _hurt_ him for christ’s sake.

The King mumbles something back in response, quieter this time so that Harry can’t make out the words, and then huffs. “Fine. But for no more than an hour, you hear? I want him shown to his bunk before nightfall and locked in that godforsaken cell.”

“Of course father,” the Prince says softly, ducking his head slightly as if in a bow as the King and Queen leave through the back doors. As soon as it shuts behind them, the Prince won’t make eye contact, won’t even muster so much as a glance in Harry’s direction. He stares down at his hands instead, clasped tightly in front of him.

“So you were a soldier then?”

“I am, yes,” Harry gets out.

“You were,” the Prince repeats slowly, almost as if it were a correction. “And how was that?”

“How was it?” Harry scoffs. “God awful, I mean it’s not exactly a white utopia now is it?”

“Oi.” Fingers dig into the same spot again, and it’s dull this time, creating a steady throbbing along Harry’s shoulder.

“Then why did you join?” The Prince seems completely unfazed by Harry’s response, choosing still to look at anywhere but him.

“Would you like me to answer that honestly?” Harry wants it to come out as tough, rebellious almost if he’s being quite honest, but it really just sounds weak, like he has a secret to hide.

Prince Louis leans against his mother’s throne, eyes coming up to look somewhere over Harry’s shoulder. “If you could be, yes.”

Harry wants Prince Louis to look at him, wants to feel those blue eyes against his. “My sister died about a year ago.” He pauses to cough, and cringes when he forgets he’s shackled, scraping his wrist in the attempt to pull up a fist to push against his mouth. “I was a blacksmith and had no money to help her. I didn’t want my mum to meet the same fate, so instead I joined the war. They said they’d take care of her while I was away.”

“And did they?”

“Wouldn’t you know best? You enforce the rules after all.”

The Prince nods at that. “Have you seen her since you’ve arrived?”

“Just once.” Harry’s voice has turned remarkably quiet, and he hates how _pathetic_ he must look and sound to the Prince. “She was in the line of crowds harassing me while they brought me over here.”

Prince Louis’ eyes shoot over to Harry’s then, staying there for so long that the ice seems to melt, mixing into a cool blue so tender against the tension of the room. “What was his name?”

“I beg your pardon?” The words are almost a whisper, and Harry would be surprised if the Prince had even heard.

“The man in the war that you were,” he hesitates a moment before saying, “with.” 

“That’s none of your business.” Harry squeezes his eyes shut so tightly he sees white, willing himself to just breathe, and tucks his bottom lip underneath his teeth in order to keep Charlie’s name hidden, already on the tip of his tongue, daring to be spoken.

“It bloody well is my business.” The older boys’ tone has changed significantly. “And you will _tell me his name_. He must face worse, if not similar consequences to yours.”

Harry’s eyes furrow, his head flashing with images he’s tried desperately to forget, and takes a shaky breath. “He’s dead.”

“He’s dead.” It sounds almost like an apology, but Harry thinks it’s just the Prince not knowing what else to say. After a moment, he clears his throat again. “When did he die?”

“Eight days ago.”

“And how long were you two in the war together?”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t know why you’re asking me all these questions, but they’re rather sentimental aren’t they?”

Prince Louis’ eyebrows bunch up at that. “I can ask you whatever I’d like. If anything you should be most willing to answer whatever I have to ask you, considering I saved your _life_.”

“My _life_?” Harry lets himself laugh at that. “You think I owe you my life now just because you wouldn’t let me die?”

The Prince clenches his jaw so hard Harry can see it, almost feel it. “I will not be treated like a _peasant_. I saved your life whether you wanted me to or _not_ , and I am your Prince and I am in line to be the bloody _King_ , so I deserve your respect and loyalty whether you want to give it to me or _not_.”

“So what’s the point of this then?” Harry gestures with his head because his hands are otherwise occupied. “What will me being guard serve you, or me?”

Prince Louis’ eyes flicker around the features of Harry’s face for a moment before his body deflates with a soft sigh. “I suppose I felt sorry for you, as ridiculous as that sounds. And I was trying to do you a _favor_.”

Harry doesn’t appreciate the closeness of the Prince’s words and opts instead to ignore it. “A _favor_ ,” he scoffs quietly. “You’ve no idea.”

“You’re lucky I don’t have your head-“

“Might want to threaten me with something else, love,” Harry winks, and instantly regrets it when he sees the slight flush creep along the other boys’ neck, complete with the pain of more fingers digging into his skin from behind.

“I think it’s time the guards took you to your bunk,” the Prince says breathlessly. “One will be by to wake you up bright and early tomorrow morning to get whatever training you need done, check you off fit to guard the Prince, and then you’ll be on your way. Understood?”

“Yeah,” Harry says softly, letting himself indulge in those eyes again before they turn away.


	3. Chapter three

Harry can’t stop shaking. He can feel the ice burn down his spine, those cerulean eyes haunting the hairs on the back of his neck, and the dampness of his hair doesn’t help, the way the water seeps into his bones so easily.

He wants to go back to the dirt, to the mud, back to where his mind moved as fast as his feet and he didn’t have to think like this, didn’t have to sit around and wait for something that had already passed.

“The mess hall for you lots’ this way.”

Harry feels familiar fingers dig into his arm as they pull him through a low archway lit with flames. He can hear the voices from ahead, muffled laughter and the clink of silver against bronze. He smells the food too, and despite his tough front, the weakness of his hunger is obvious through the growling of his stomach.

“Through here,” the voice attached to the hands says roughly. “We’ll be back to escort you to your bunk when dinner is done.”

Harry sighs at the release of tension as the guards leave him, and he saunters over to the small wooden door, heart pounding, blood racing, and he feels like an idiot for being so _shy_.

He opens the door to memories. Groups of hardheaded soldiers litter the dimly lit room, plates of chicken, rice, and potatoes surrounding them. A small kitchen sits in the back corner away from all the commotion, a young boy kneading dough against the broken tabletop, and it’s like every part of him relaxes back into place.

He can feel them staring at him as if he’s the new kid, wants to laugh at the irony of it, and lets his feet carry him towards the smell wafting from the kitchen.

The boy there looks up at him as he approaches, and Harry realizes quickly that the boy isn’t young at all, in fact he looks to be a couple years older than Harry himself. His hair is buzzed away, perfect for fighting, and his soft features and large brown eyes are welcoming against the harsh environment of the castle.

“Help yourself,” the boy smiles, before quickly going back to watching his fingers press against white flour.

Harry just clears his throat awkwardly in response and reaches out to dish up his food. His fingers pick apart the chicken messily, hands still shaking, and takes a deep breath to steady himself as he abandons the meat and makes to pick up his plate.

“Harry?”

Harry smells summer against the wheezing of his lungs. He turns suddenly to hair as blonde as the sun and a face so unbearably recognizable that it takes a miracle to keep him standing.

“Charlie,” he breathes against the cold in his chest, even though he knows it’s impossible for this man, here in front of him, to be the constellations Harry had so ridiculously compared him to.

Harry had seen him, had reached out bravely to grab the back of his jacket, had missed the timing by a split half second, had watched the sky turn black against the fall of the sun.

“What’re you doin’ here?” The boy makes his way over to Harry clumsily, knocking over some food in the process.

Harry’s mind is buzzing, trying to fight past the initial image of Charlie’s face, so obviously in front of him, and tries to conjure up another, almost identical one. Although his body is paralyzed his eyes work furiously over the soft but toned features of the irish lad.

“Shit you’re alive.”

He braces himself against the onslaught, feet grounded as the older boy plows into him with a grunt, arms wrapped strongly around his waist and face buried into his shoulder, tears already staining the fabric of his tunic.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” the blonde mumbles. “I thought surely…and after Charlie-“

Harry doesn’t think he can move, but somehow his fingers have managed to dig into the older boys’ shoulders, a breath of relief swooping out of him at the touch, at the way it feels nothing like Charlie but so achingly close.

“Niall,” Harry whispers into the air before him.

 

~

 

Harry thinks he might die. His breath curls around the mess of his hair, glazed over with frozen dew, and the jacket he’s wearing isn’t enough to completely shut out the harsh wind. He hears a twig snap behind him and quickly places his hand over the hilt of his knife, swiveling around on his heel and widening his eyes as if that would help him see through the dark.  

A soft chuckle comes from the shadows and Harry can barely make out a silhouette against the trees.

“It’s only me lover boy.”

Harry exhales loudly and relaxes the muscles along his shoulders. “Couldn’t have been any quieter then?”

The silhouette laughs again, this time much louder, and even though Harry wants to tell him to shut up in case someone’s heard, he just smiles around the warning instead.

“Sorry, should have known better than to sneak up on you.”

“I’ve got a knife on me you know, could have cut you to pieces.”

“Mm, sure.” The figure sidles up close, fingers warming up Harry’s cheeks, and presses against his torso. “You’re freezing Harry, how long have you been out here?”

“For bloody ever it feels like,” he splutters, burying his face embarrassingly into the crook of the older boys neck, warm and soft and smelling like summer despite the weather.

“Come here then.”

Harry feels his chin being grasped firmly and pulled forward, lips meeting with lava, slow but clever, burning its way down his throat and to the tips of his toes. He brings his hands up quickly, braced against the back of Charlie’s neck, and pulls him closer, mouth opening against the heat of his breath.

Charlie’s hands have moved to span across Harry’s back, fingers clumsily implying the need to rid the curly haired boy of his clothes, but the shiver that jolts along Harry’s spine at the thought makes him decide otherwise, instead opting to slow his lips to a sweet pace, tongue tracing the words crawling up the younger boys’ throat.

“Charlie?”

Harry’s eyes burst open, body wrenching away from Charlie’s, hands pulling and pushing, trying to get in front of him, trying to get him away because that voice wasn’t his and there’s someone standing by the tree next to them and _shit_ Harry can’t lose this, can’t lose him.

“Niall? What the hell are you doing up?”

“Came to follow you. You’ve been getting up every night about this time; didn’t think you’d made a precise schedule of peeing.”

“Shit, fuck, _shit_.”

“Whose this then?”

Harry freezes as the figure gestures to him, stepping into the small amount of moonlight available and raising an eyebrow at him expectantly.

The boy is the spitting image of Charlie, blonde hair and sharp eyes, a tall lanky frame, but still strong enough to appear intimidating. He’s got a pistol strapped to his belt along with his sword, as if he thought he’d need protection out here in the woods away from camp. He’s got a slightly wider nose and teeth a little crooked, but Harry swears that at a glance, they were identical.

“This is Harry,” Charlie sighs. “You know.”

“ _You know_?” Harry wheezes. His fingers tighten into a fist around the cloth of Charlie’s jacket as he turns to face him, eyes wild and chest heaving.

“Calm down love,” Charlie murmurs, brushing his thumb along the flush of Harry’s cheekbone. “Niall’s my younger brother, wouldn’t tell to save his life, promise.”

Harry turns back to the awaiting figure, breath caught in his throat as he sees the boy extend his hand in greeting.

“Nice to meet you then,” he laughs, and Harry thinks it might be the exhaustion or the cold or maybe the adrenaline but then he’s laughing in response, hands relaxing against the failed tension.

“Yeah.”

 

~

 

Harry breathes in the scent of him, so strong against the memories flooding his brain. “What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

“I got shipped back,” Niall says, pulling away from the embrace, “two weeks before Charlie’s mission.”

He gulps loudly, fingers brushing through thick hair. “Thought maybe you were dead too.”

Niall laughs. “I thought _you_ were dead. I heard you were caught, heard you were sent back, didn’t think they’d let you live.”

“Me neither,” Harry says softly. “Sort of wish they hadn’t.”

“Stop it,” he mutters. “Don’t dishonor my brother that way.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“

“I know, it’s hard.”

“ _Hard_.” The word sounds sour coming out of his mouth.

“So what did they put you on?” Niall says softly, trying to change the subject away from a topic neither of them wanted to delve into now.

“Personal guard,” Harry mumbles, waving his hand in the air with a roll of his eyes. He tries to block out the hard jawline and thin eyes that accompany the title.

“Personal guard? To who?”

“The Prince.”

A few of the lads around them stop talking, faces turned expectantly towards Harry and Niall’s private conversation.

“The _Prince_? You’re joking. The kid’s a brat, can barely function without mummy cutting up the meat on his plate.”

“He saved my life.” Harry bites his lip and shakes his head, fixing his hair unconsciously. “I’m not saying he’s not a brat, I’m just saying he saved my life, so.”

“Saved your life?”

Harry shrugs, picking at the chicken on his plate absentmindedly, the hunger coming back now that the initial shock of seeing Niall was over. “The King was going to hang me, but the Prince opted for me not to be.”

“Didn’t think a royal could be so selfless.”

Harry shrugs again, a gesture he thinks he could get used to. Niall slaps him warmly on the shoulder with a sigh regardless and pushes him towards the direction he had come from.

“Come on then, eat up before they collect.”

 

~

 

They collect too soon. Harry’s barely finished his plate when five of them swarm in, barking orders and ushering them into a line fit for children. He’s pushed to the back, away from Niall and behind the puppy dog eyed baker from the kitchen.

They’re ushered quickly down the hallway, opposite the way Harry had come, and doors begin to turn up, the soldiers breaking out of the line in two’s to disappear behind them. It becomes apparent to Harry soon that he and the boy in front of him are the last two, and so when the next door shows up, he quickly follows the buzz cut inside.

It’s dark, but only a few seconds pass before the boy has ignited the two candles sitting on the bedside table. Harry looks around for a moment, taking in the simplicity of the room and the creaky wooden frame it’s encased in.

“I’m on the top bunk, and I know you’re new and all but if you want it I can move down to the bottom one.”

Harry smiles slightly. “No that’s alright, thanks, bottom’s alright for me.”

“Alright good.” The boy shuffles his feet for a moment before extending his hand. “I’m Liam, by the way.”

“Harry.”

“Nice to meet you Harry.” He pauses for a moment before saying, “I didn’t mean to overhear but is it true that you’re the personal guard for Prince Louis?”

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, curling his shoulders down and shuffling towards the bunk bed sitting in the upper right hand corner of the room.

“Brutal,” he murmurs. “Been on his guard before, it’s not exactly easy.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s mischievous that one.”

Harry quirks an eyebrow, trying to decide whether or not to be surprised.

“You best get a good nights rest then, they’ll put you to work in the morning.”

He lies down as Liam goes over to the small wardrobe and undresses, blowing out the candles on his way back over. Harry can hear the wood groan as he climbs to the top and settles down amongst his blankets. It isn’t long before the snoring starts up, soft and soothing, lulling Harry into a sleep he isn’t quite ready for.


	4. Chapter four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys so sorry if this is sort of shit, I don't really have much of a story line up until the interesting stuff happens, because of course. also, I should be updating this fic every monday night/tuesday morning if not earlier.

It’s much quieter than Harry is used to. He remembers waking up every morning to birds, to the rustle of the wind against the trees, to breath puffed hot against his cheek. He thinks that maybe if he focuses long enough he can hear the faint chirping outside his broken window, but the longer he pays attention the less he hears it and the more he believes he’s making it up to bring himself comfort.

Harry has been here for two weeks, and it has been two endless weeks of cold toes against hardwood floors, of back pains and sweaty hair, of aching fingers blistered from the hilt of a sword he didn’t forge. He hadn’t seen the Prince since their first meeting upon his arrival, and some part of him wanted to, undeniably, while another part told him it was the most idiotic thought he’d ever had. 

Liam had been a good distraction, helping him with his sword work and proper footing. Despite Harry having been in the war he wasn’t particularly good at handling a weapon, and Liam made sure to let him know every chance he got. It’s not like Harry didn’t like Liam, it’s just that his obliviousness was so unbearably irritating, and what was worse was he was too kind, too good-natured for Harry to tell him. He was too nice, too loyal. Harry thinks it’s almost bad for someone like that to be here.

He had seen glimpses of Niall as well. The only time they were ever able to talk was during dinner, and those sessions didn’t nearly last long enough for Harry. He had missed him, and the part of him that missed Charlie was too attached to seeing an almost identical face every night to let go.

The mark had faded within the first few days, but Harry did not cry himself to sleep, did not pick at the flesh with desperation, just stared at the wall and missed him until the sun came up.

“It’s not fair,” he’d murmur to Niall after they’d be finished eating.

“Of course it’s not fucking fair,” Niall would snap back, and then they’d just sit there with their elbows touching while Harry apologized with his eyes for forgetting Niall missed his brother too. It was hard, so unspeakably hard, but he woke up every day anyway.

And now Harry was in the practice study, tunic gripped to his body with perspiration and feet cramped beneath his weight as he shifted from one to the other, sliding along the hard ground with ease.

“That’s better,” Liam sighed.

Harry wipes his brow silently, sheathing his sword. “Are we done for today?”

“Not quite.”

And it’s like he’s just fought a whole army, the way his whole body begins to ache. Harry looks up along with Liam, surprise etched into each of their faces as they take in the Prince, fiddling with the hem of his tunic near the door. There’s another boy with him, one with dark eyes and even darker hair and the way that he looks at Harry should have said enough.

Liam immediately, upon the realization that he was in the presence of a royal, dropped to one knee, bowing low with a murmured, “your grace.”

But Harry doesn’t. Instead he takes in the bags beneath the Prince’s eyes, tinged purple and green against the daylight, takes in his nervous fingers against his tunic, a long piece of thread already unraveled form the end, sticking to his pants, unnoticed. He takes in the way Prince Louis purses his lips, mouth turned down when he catches sight of Harry’s stare.

“Are your legs not working, then?”

Harry’s eyes snap away from washing over the strands of the Prince’s frayed hair and over to the boy beside him. “I’m sorry?”

“You _kneel_ before your Prince, blacksmith.”

And so he does, almost too quickly, curls bouncing along the back of his neck, but he thinks he hears a murmured, “it’s okay.”

“So,” the boy continues, after the Prince has motioned for both Harry and Liam to stand again, “is this what you’ve accomplished in two weeks time?”

Liam fish mouths, face turning red as if he had to _impress_ this guy. “I know it may not seem like much but he has improved significantly since arriving-“

“You mean to tell me this ex-soldier didn’t have any previous skills with a sword?”

“Zayn.” The Prince turns his head slightly towards his companion. “There’s no need to be rude.”

“I’m just surprised is all.”

The Prince looks up then, and his eyes meet with Harry’s. “Have you ever fought before, Harry?”

“I’ve seen battle once or twice,” he responds softly, thankful that his voice didn’t come out as a croak with how dry the Prince had seemed to make his throat. “Never did a lot of combat, though.”

Prince Louis nods. “And if the time came for you to protect somebody with your life, would you be able to muster the ability to do so?”

Harry breathes through his nose. “I think I could, yes.”

“Then finish up whatever practice you have left and meet me outside my quarters before lunch.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows shockingly high. “I’m sorry, what exactly is it that you’re proposing Lou?”

_Lou_.

“I’m proposing that he meet me outside my quarters before lunch.” The Prince doesn’t look at Zayn though, just looks at Harry. “Are you clear on that?”

“Yes,” Harry murmurs, bowing his head swiftly.

The Prince stares at him for a moment, eyes curious, and it means that Harry gets to stare back, gentle almost.

“Harry isn’t ready yet-“ Liam begins before Zayn silences him with a stare.

“The Prince says he is, then he is.”

Harry bites his lower lip and watches, surprised, as the Prince’s eyes flicker down to follow. “You trust me enough to let me guard your life?”

“Have I any reason not to trust you?”

“I’m a traitor,” he says obviously, repeating the words the King had said upon their first meeting.

Prince Louis turns his mouth down, eyes anchoring against Harry’s. “You’re not a traitor.”

Zayn grunts with a roll of his eyes and tugs at the sleeve of the Prince’s tunic. “Can we leave now?”

Harry watches him carefully, how he doesn’t respond.

“Elounor’s here, she’s in the garden,” Zayn adds with a raise of his eyebrows.

The Prince tears his eyes away at the name, nodding and allowing Zayn to pull him from the room. As soon as he’s gone, Harry lets out the longest breath he’s ever held.

“You’re not ready,” Liam panics, snapping him out of his reverie.

“I’m aware I’m not ready-“

“So then why did you _agree_?”

“He’s the Prince, Liam, shouldn’t that be enough?”

Liam rubs his face anxiously as if he were the one not yet prepared to guard a royal with his life. “Alright. I suggest you go get washed up before you meet with him then.”

 

~

 

Harry is swarmed with the sense of déjà vu. He lets himself sit beneath the water, eyes closed, with his fingers shaking unsteadily against the skin of his thighs. He’s not ready for this. He hadn’t been ready for the war, hadn’t been ready for Charlie, hadn’t been ready to _live_.

He takes a shaky breath and runs his fingers through the matted mess on top of his head; picking through curls and knots until his scalp stung. Leaning backwards, he dunks his head under the water, cold against the flush of his cheeks, and wills the noises of the castle to go away.

Harry wasn’t ready for this.

Opening his mouth, he feels a rush burn into his chest, stinging against his throat and tightening the muscles in his legs. He keeps his eyes closed, fingers gripped dangerously hard against the sides of the porcelain bath, and locks his breath somewhere deep inside, somewhere Charlie used to reside.

He thinks it could be easy, maybe.

Then his hair is being pulled, head forced up, his fingers slipping against the water splashing against the wake of his body, mouth opening around a wheezing cough.

“What the bloody hell are you thinking?”

Harry drops his head back against his shoulders, coughing against the words climbing up his throat. Fingers grab a hold of his hair again, pulling it up, and his eyes meet with an outraged Niall.

“Are you insane?”

“Shit,” Harry breathes, pushing his hand against the boys face. “Get off me.”

“Were you seriously going to just let yourself drown?”

Harry moves to get out of the tub. “ _What_?”

“I called your name like fifty times you _twat_. You trying to kill yourself?”

“Jesus Niall,” Harry murmurs, grasping his robe and pulling it around his naked body. “No, I wasn’t trying to kill myself.” He waves his fingers absentmindedly beside his ears. “The water, it blocks out the noise.”

Niall visibly relaxes at that, slumping against the sink. “Well, good, ‘cus the Prince is looking for you.”

Harry nearly chokes on his own spit. “He left Liam and me like, ten minutes ago.”

“Yeah well, he obviously thought you’d be quicker.”

“What god awful hour does he eat lunch, then?”

“Oi, careful, he’s the Prince you know.”

“I think I’ve already proved just how much loyalty I have for the crown,” Harry says, slipping out of his robe and pulling on new clean pants and a tunic.

“You’re going to get yourself killed, if you keep talking on like that,” Niall says softly. “Look just, he’s outside, in the gardens, alright? When you’re done.”

“Thanks,” Harry replies shortly, before Niall turns and leaves the room.

Harry wasn’t ready for this.

He makes his trek towards the gardens when he’s finished, having walked around aimlessly for a good ten minutes before realizing he didn’t actually know where the garden _was_. He thinks about going to find Niall or Liam, but he doesn’t really know where _he_ is, honestly, and there isn’t anyone around to ask.

There’s a small archway leading outside, and so Harry ducks through it, positive that if he just walked in a circle outside, he’d be bound to stumble upon it anyway.

“Not trying to run off are you?”

Harry turns to find a very amused Zayn leaning against the archway, arms crossed against his chest protectively.

“Go on, then. If you stepped any further you’d probably be knifed by a guard anyway.”

Harry licks his lips before pushing his hair back away from his face. “I ehm, got lost, actually.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows. “You got lost?”

“I don’t exactly know my way around do I?”

The older boy snorts before jerking his head back inside. “Well, for starters, the garden is _that_ way.”

Harry clears his throat, taking a tentative step forward towards the archway. “Right, thanks.”

Zayn steps casually in front of him. “Look, I’m sure you’re completely harmless, if your skills with a sword earlier are anything to go by. But Louis is my best friend, and the fact that he hasn’t told me anything about you, or why you’re here, or why he’s made you his personal guard says something to me.”

Harry feels his whole body go rigid.

“I trust his judgment more than anything. But I don’t trust you. We clear on that?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and he’s surprised by how strong it sounds. “We’re clear.”

Zayn narrows his eyes slightly. “What did you do?” He says it lowly, like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear but him.

“Nothing,” Harry says back. “Now, would you mind showing me the way to the garden?”

Light breaks into the castle as Zayn moves back, turning on his heel and walking back the way Harry had just come. He follows sheepishly, angry at himself for reacting so stupidly. It’s just, he didn’t really get it, the whole hierarchy, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

Harry was nineteen, and he had already seen enough at his age to completely override any experience the royals claimed to have.

What was worse is that he had a million questions, and he couldn’t ask any of them. He was curious for the backstory on the Prince, and even though he had his best friend, his right hand man, walking right there in front of him, he couldn’t ask.

Zayn pulls him through a couple of archways before they enter a massive room, walls painted red and the ceiling painted gold. There are empty banquet tables set up on the far side, and chandeliers blanket the room in a warm glow, dots of light bouncing off the polished ground and dancing against the skin of Harry’s arms.

“What is this place?” Harry has to ask.

“The ballroom,” Zayn replies nonchalantly, and continues on as if it weren’t the most spectacular thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

They exit the castle on the opposite end of the room and immediately enter the garden. It’s closed off by rose bushes, hedges taller than trees, and guards standing stiffly against the chinks in its armor. Harry loses his breath momentarily, because he’d never had plants like this in his whole life.

He remembers the way flowers looked when he was younger, sitting just out of his reach on the tables of merchants his mother warned him never to visit. They told him to bugger off every day, told him there was no way in the world he’d be able to pay for them, and they were right. But Harry loved them, so he went back anyway.

“You think you can manage to find the Prince on your own now?”

Harry nods slowly. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Good.” And with that Zayn disappears back into the castle.

Harry begins to walk deeper into the garden, trailing his fingers along the reds and purples of the landscape around him, smiling for what’s felt like the first time since arriving. Charlie would have loved it here.

Pushing away, he looks up to find the Prince sitting along a stone bench, attention focused on a tall yet petite looking brunette, clad in jewelry Harry could have spent his whole life saving for and still never be able to afford. She’s picking at a rose tenderly, face turned down but lips turned up as the Prince continues to speak to her softly, fingers resting against her thigh.

He clears his throat awkwardly, pushing his fringe back away from his face before locking his hands behind his back.

“Harry.”

The girl looks up at that, and Harry can see that she’s incredibly beautiful, with pouty lips and eyes like moons.

“What are you doing here?” 

Harry looks back over at the Prince, furrowing his eyebrows. “I was told to come meet you here instead? Niall said you had been looking for me.”

“Right, I – “ He clears his throat before pecking the girl beside him on the cheek quickly. “I’ll meet with you later love, alright?”

The girl pouts and Harry turns to look at the ground. “But I’m leaving soon, can’t you take care of this later?”

“Unfortunately not,” he murmurs, petting at her hair before standing up. “Business comes first, you know that.”

“Just don’t keep me waiting too long!”

The Prince walks towards Harry, motioning for him to walk back with him, and they enter into the castle side by side.

“So,” Harry begins, “how exactly does this work?”

The Prince snorts, turning to look at Harry out of the corner of his eye. “Well, we’ll have to get you into proper attire first.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have gone on a hiatus with this particular piece of work, I apologize! thank you though for reading, and hopefully I will be able to start it back up again soon.
> 
> you can find me at haz-nana.tumblr.com and can direct any comments, criticism, what have you, there!


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